Nothing Gold
by Kilroy-M
Summary: Earlymorning ScullyIntrospection, near the end of one era and the beginning of another.


TITLE: Nothing Gold

AUTHOR: Kilroy M. (kilroy at letterboxes . org)

RATING: T/PG-13, just in case. Adult subject matter is referred to, though only obliquely and not graphically in the least. (Sorry to disappoint.)

CATEGORY: General, Mulder/Scully Romance (w./established relationship), Vignette, take your pick.

SPOILERS: This oneshot takes place near the end of Season 7, and alludes to themes that appear in the show up to and around that time (especially in "all things" and "Requiem"). However, there are no specific episode spoilers.

SUMMARY: Early-morning ScullyIntrospection, near the end of one era and the beginning of another.

DISCLAIMER: For the sake of habit and convention, let me reiterate that I've no desire to take credit (or cash, for that matter) where it is not due. I'm just exercising my keyboard and exorcising my imagination. As ever.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Frankly, it makes me sad that the X-Files have been over for so long. This point was driven home to me recently while I was watching "Ice," one of my favorite episodes, with my sister: She commented on the age of the episode, I automatically said "no way," and then I realized that she was right. More recently, the two of us watched "Rush." While that is not one of my favorite episodes, it did have Mulder comment to Scully "maybe we're just too old," after which Scully's expression registered a noticeable change. Those two events, combined with any shipper's natural interest in the facts preceding William's implied début in "Requiem," led to this, my first oneshot.

Nature's first green is gold,

Her hardest hue to hold.

Her early leaf's a flower;

But only so an hour.

Then leaf subsides to leaf.

So Eden sank to grief;

So dawn goes down to day,

Nothing gold can stay.

"Nothing Gold Can Stay" -- Robert Frost

Dammit, there's drool in my hair again.

This does happen sometimes. Not every day, not by any means, but often enough that when it _does_ happen it causes the illusion of maddening frequency, or maybe it just reminds me that I'd rather it not happen at all. I'm not sure. What I actually resent more than the presence of said drool is the fact that it generally shows up in my hair only on days when I'm running late to begin with, meaning that not only will I have to try extra hard to catch up to my usual morning schedule within a collapsed time frame, but I am also going to have to attempt this frankly superhuman feat while also finding the time to take extra care in cleaning out my hair.

I'm going to blame this on Mulder. Even as one part of my mind applauds this decision as fully rational (after all, it _does_ happen to be _his_ drool; it _does_ happen to be in my hair as a direct result of his habit of falling asleep while crushing me like a drowning man does a life preserver), another equal part of my mind condemns such as fully unfair. After all, it is _certainly_ not as if my erstwhile partner forced or coerced me into sleeping with him; secondly, being crushed like a life preserver isn't actually nearly as unpleasant as my choice of words may have caused it to sound (at least, not if Mulder is the one doing the crushing); _thirdly_, I happen to know for a fact that I am not entirely innocent of nocturnal offences myself, having unconsciously kicked a large bruise into existence on my partner's left shin only last Wednesday night.

_And yet, and yet,_ I think, scrubbing at my sodden hair with one shampoo-covered hand while fumbling for a bar of soap with the other hand, _a bruised shin, while it is undoubtedly painful, does not require its owner to spend extra time in the shower while already running fairly late in the morning._ I frown and rinse the shampoo out of my hair, then reach for the conditioner.

About five minutes later, I'm struggling to blow-dry my head of now drool-free hair while simultaneously fitting my legs into a pair of pantyhose. Part of me (the part that sometimes wants to climb up tall trees and jump out of them again; to hurl rocks at all the brothers and co-workers who have pissed me off over the years; to skip work and go for ice cream instead; to wear only my bathrobe, ever, from here on out) really, really doesn't want to be putting on these pantyhose. How much could it hurt to forego the wretched pair this once, just for today? _Only the cost of Mulder's composure at work,_ I remind myself. The last time I ditched the pantyhose, my partner wasn't able to concentrate all day long. This had an infectious effect on me, and I have to admit we left work early that day. Considerably early, in fact. Though it is exceedingly pleasant to allow my mind the privilege of wandering along this tangent while I finish up with my hair and put down the blow-dryer, I do realize that the luxury of leaving work considerably early is not one that Mulder and I can often afford. It has been all too apparent in the past that we are seldom left completely unwatched by those who would like little better than to effect our permanent ejection from the FBI.

Which brings me to the second thing that's annoying me this morning. Why is it that every time we finish up a difficult case and beat a hasty retreat back to D.C., or believe ourselves free of prying eyes, we always seem to end up in _his_ apartment? Not that I have anything against his apartment . . . well, anything _much_, at least . . . but, just for once, I would appreciate it if I weren't the one who had to race back home at an ungodly hour to clean up and get ready to go to work, then pretend with my partner of six years that we aren't happily violating Bureau statutes on a near-nightly basis. Though Mulder does engage in a fair amount of office-hours pretension himself, _he_ has never had to skulk home from _my_ apartment in a state of magnificent disarray, trying to blink the sleep out of _his_ eyes long enough not to cause a traffic pileup on the way, simultaneously trying to remember where on Earth _his_ underwear got to during the night, seriously hoping that it did not somehow end up in the fishtank again.

_Still_, I think to myself as I rifle through my closet for a particular suit that I _know_ I got dry-cleaned only the other day, _it can't be as if his position is any more pleasant._ After all, I'm not the one who has to deal with the fact of my partner abandoning my embrace at said ungodly hour. How much must it hurt Mulder to wake up to his alarm clock in the morning only to discover that I've already vanished? Wriggling out of his morning deathgrip is more difficult for me emotionally than it is physically. I can work out the kinks in my sleep-twisted muscles; I can wash the MulderDrool from my hair; but I never quite get over the way it feels to see his figure sprawled there, tangled up and drowning alone in the blankets I've just vacated. It wrenches at my heart when I pull myself out of his grip, and yet somehow I find myself doing it over and over again. He always looks as vulnerable lying there as a Prometheus lashed to his rock, and I'm the reason why.

_Stop that,_ I tell myself firmly; _thinking along those lines isn't going to help anybody_. I fit the found suit around my body. (What I _haven't_ yet found are the underthings I know I was wearing at some point yesterday. I blush even though I know there is no one there to see.)

I re-enter the bathroom and start on my makeup, periodically glancing at my watch as I go. Damn, I'm going to have to get "creative" with the D.C. speed limits again if I don't want the water cooler crowd to notice that my daily trek down to the basement is later than usual.

Okay. All done. I don't _look_ as if I'm guilty of anything more than failing to incorporate a wide range of colors other than black into my wardrobe. And maybe staying up too late . . . the shadows under my eyes are still there . . . just in case, I'd better try a little harder to hide them. Right, that's good.

Now. Time for the daily mantra.

"I will not do anything stupid at work today to jeopardize the current order into which Mulder and I have set our respective lives. Neither will I spend too much time reminding myself of such at work today, which would lead to distraction and might have the same ultimate effect. Rather, Mulder and I will kick collective paranormal and/or criminal ass in an utterly professional way, so help me God and Assistant Director Walter S. Skinner."

There we go. Prayers for the day duly said, I give my appearance a last perfunctory check and, after assuring myself that my slip is not hanging, put on my favorite black high-heeled shoes, and take off.

One of these days it'll take a little more than our boss and my God to keep things in line. Until then, I'll take my moments of happiness where I find them. Mulder is a perennial favorite, of course, but I can't help but to also notice how beautiful it is outside today as I trot down to my car. The air is soft and cleaner than usual, the sky is peaceful and clear, and who cares if my period is missing in action? I'm getting older, I've got to expect the occasional physical curveball, and my One True Love seems to firmly believe that I'm gorgeous regardless. In fact, lately I've been feeling as if I fit perfectly into my skin; as if I've come into my own and possess a glowing inner potential that visibly radiates out from my body.

Today I thoroughly intend to take Mulder, whom I believe to be just as fundamentally responsible for my profound sense of well-being as he is for the drool in my hair, out to ice cream after work. The golden combination of last night and this morning and the promise of seeing his face within the next hour is all I need to reaffirm my faith that it will all work out somehow.

AUTHOR'S ENDNOTES:

And it does. Eventually. Or at least I prefer to think it worked out after the end of Season 9. If you don't, please don't share that with me; I much prefer to wallow in hope.

I would also like to thank all the excellent people who have reviewed my previous stories. Your kindness has brightened a few of my own mornings. :)

- K.M.


End file.
